The Day I Died
by DefineNormalitee
Summary: The day he died was the best day of his life because Jack made it that way. Songfic for The Day I Died by Just Jack.


**AN: Word of advice – listen to the song first?**

-x-

It starts with the silence. It _always _starts with the silence.

And then come the screams. Jack's never sure which are worse. The silence is anticipation – waiting for the worst. The screams are knowing the worst has already come, and there's nothing you can do about it.

But there's always that little bit of you that _has _to try. There's always that bit that runs.

There's Jack, now, at his side. The man can't be older than his late thirties. Nothing special, really – just another lonely Londoner who steps into the traffic.

So why can't you look away?

Maybe it's the pack of ciggies, and the way his hands are clenched around them so tightly you'd think they were the lifeline in the storm. To him, they may well have been.

Maybe it's the six pack, and the way he's cradling them in his arms like… well, like a newborn. A new beginning. Hope.

No… Jack thinks all this, but decides eventually that it's the face. That young old face with the bags and the wrinkles and the tired eyes that seem – finally – at such peace. His mouth is turned downwards in a frown, but his eyes are free and careless at last. In that moment, Jack wishes he could die. There's conflict in those eyes. But there's peace, too.

Such peace.

"I guess he never saw that taxi." Ianto's staring, too, but that's not sadness in his eyes. That's pity. It angers Jack beyond possible measure. For some reason it angers him even more when Ianto reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wallet. "Shit… two kids and a wife. Worked at Glenndinnings…"

"Where did he live?"

"Lives over in Ealing, like Sarah Jane." Ianto raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

"We have to help him," Jack chokes. Ianto frowns.

"Jack, he… he's-"

"I know. I _know_." Jack sighs. He's dead. Move on. Time to turn away.

But he can't.

When he looks at it, the buttons on the Vortex Manipulator flash feebly – almost in a resigned way. He doesn't dare hope as he reaches out with trembling fingers and presses that button.

-x-

That day – the day he died – was the best day of his life.

It's Jack who stops the bus – tells them he's from bomb squad. There's a bomb on the bus, ladies and gents, and you all have to get off, _now. _Yes, even you, Mr Bus Driver. Buh-bye now.

It's Jack who takes the long way round, just to avoid the road works. No, love, I have to go this way. It's the new route. You weren't notified? Aww, too bad.

It's Jack who flirts with the secretaries before he walks in, just to make them smile. No, I don't work here. I know someone who does though.

It's Jack who pours the contents of his in-tray into the bin. This? This is nothing. This is rubbish. Junk mail. Yeah, junk mail. Back to your cubicle.

It's Jack who sits on the bench opposite him with three bags of bird seed at his feet. Ew. Pidgeons. Nice legs, guys.

And then it's Jack who, for a moment, accidentally on purpose forgets everything he knows about time travel and how you can't change _fixed events in time_ as he shouts and screams across the street at that man. This isn't an _event_. This is a life. Tells him not to cross the road. Yells about the taxi. Tells him to look one more time.

It's Jack who watches him frown, mouth '_I can't hear you_' and step into the street so he can hear him better.

I guess he never saw that taxi.

_The day I died was the best day of my life_

_The day I died was the best day of my life_

_Tell my friends and my kids and my wife_

_Everything will be alright_

_The day I died was the best day of my life_

And then it's Jack who sits with him, watching the man with the smile on his face and the peaceful eyes and forgets about the bags under his eyes and the wrinkles. It's Jack who turns away, this time, and walks away with his hand in Ianto's.

-x-

**AN: I know. I know it's shit, and it doesn't make sense, and a Vortex Manipulator probably doesn't do that, and you're all going to leave shitty reviews about how crap an author I am. My response shall be the same to you all, just to save us some time: I don't care what you think of this. I had to write it. I had to post it. I had to. I'm not sorry if you didn't like it. That, my friends, is what I like to call **_**tough. **_**If you feel like making whiny little comments, go ahead. I shall take great pleasure in laughing at every single one of them.**


End file.
